While They Dance On A Pin
by shirleypositive72
Summary: Sam, Dean, and Jane have been on the road almost constantly since Dean's return from Hell. They're finding Seals, finding danger, finding out each other's secrets. But it's what they find when they open the door to one more motel room that sends Dean back into his darkest moments. An OC's experience of episode 4x16, On the Head of a Pin. Sequel to "That Picture".
1. It's Nice To Be Needed

**A/N: This is (OC) Jane Downey's view of "On The Head of A Pin". The sequel to "That Picture". It isn't **_**strictly **_**necessary to have read "That Picture" or to have seen this episode of Supernatural, but neither would hurt. Thanks to LilyBolt for the episode suggestion. Read her stuff - you won't regret it. I own neither Supernatural nor the men who populate that universe.**

"You can sit up front, Jane," Sammy told me.

Those were the last words spoken among the three of us today. It's been hours.

The saying is that silence is deafening. I don't think that's right. There is never true silence. There's a buzz underneath the quiet; that's silence. I can hear every bit of it pushing against my eardrums. Or feel it, rather. Beneath the rumble of the engine, the even hum of the tires on cold asphalt, the hiss of the heat pouring from the vents, the light patter of the rain against glass, is the weight of the unspoken. It is heavy,all that is left unsaid, pressing down on all three of us with a force that makes taking a deep breath impossible.

Conversation is not a viable option for filling the roaring void. My God, what could we possibly say? Which cheerful memory could we share with each other to lighten the mood? In the four and a half months since Dean was pulled from Hell, there has been job after job, monster after monster, black and blue bruises on top of yellowed ones; all of it covered liberally in demon blood and angel feathers.

Sam and Dean have faced everything from familiar ghosts who were revealed to be harbingers of the apocalypse, to time travel, to black and white movie monsters, to feral humans living in the walls of a Midwestern farmhouse. There was a shit-just-got-real Halloween and a Yorkie that threatened Dean's life. There was a red-haired fallen angel who took a little too much interest in my man, and a Siren who came between my boys. Sam banged Sharon Stone in the middle of _Basic Instinct_, and Dean was asked for his safe word. They've fought Hell's chief torture master, been hounded by angels of the Lord, and raced to stay one step ahead of Lilith and her campaign to break the Seals that lead to the end of the world.

The boys both learned new magic tricks, they hunted for strippers bearing Disney princess names, a whistle made Dean a high school gym class god, and Sammy was killed - then unkilled - by a wishing well that thought it had jokes. Bobby blasted away at witnesses, spoke Japanese, and stuck Dean with a shiny blade. I became a cheerleading coach for a hot minute and met Mary Winchester. We all had our childish notions of benevolent guardian angels destroyed, replaced by a much less comforting reality. Dean revealed secrets of torturing and being tortured in Hell, Sam kept his own secrets and lies to himself, Castiel remained an unpredictable enigma, I struggled to find my place, and Bobby worried about us all. It's been an eventful, stressful, tension-filled time.

And then we went to Greybull, Wyoming.

We battled Alistair, teacher of demon interrogation and terror . We rescued Tessa, Dean's personal Reaper buddy who is apparently not very good at her job. We sent a very awesome dead kid into the light. We saved a Seal.

And we got Pam killed.

Our snarky psychic and devoted Ramones fan, our inappropriate threesome-offering buddy: dead. And this time, we know what happened to her was our fault. Neither Castiel nor an ill advised seance was anywhere near this one. We called her in; even after she asked us to leave her out of this Seal business, we guilted her into helping us again. The demons drew blood, but the blame lies at our feet.

So now we sit in the Impala as it carries us to the next destination sure to be as full of doubt and danger as any other destination in our recent past. Sam and Dean changed back into their street clothes before we left the funeral home. Unused to following the civilian rites of death, they nonetheless went along with the too-formal rituals with little complaint for as long as they could. Handsome and stoic in their FBI suits, they paid their last respects to a friend. Both would have much preferred to send her off on a hunter's pyre.

I, on the other hand, remain in my long black dress, purchased just for the occasion. As saddened as I truly am by Pamela's death, no matter how much I disliked her when we first met, I'm holding on to this small window of normalcy. Wearing black, gathering with a large crowd of mourners, wasting money on flower arrangements the deceased cares nothing about, scattering a handful of dirt in the grave - this is the most normal thing we've done in recent memory. This is what the rest of the world does when someone dies. They cry, they bury them, and they gather for casserole afterward. We did those things. We played along with the charade that we existed in a world that wasn't ending bloody. And now we're driving on.

Sam decides to roll the thunder of conversation across the dark calm before this storm.

"Ruby'll meet us outside Cheyenne. She's been tracking some leads. At the sound of grunts of frustration coming from the front seat, he tries a more diplomatic approach. "Look, I know she's not exactly on either of your Christmas lists, but if she can help us get to Lilith-"

"Man, work with Ruby, don't. I don't really give a rat's ass."

"What's your problem?"

"Pamela didn't want anything to do with this, and we dragged her back into it, Sam."

"She knew what was at stake."

"Yeah, saving the world. And we're doing such a damn good job of it."

"Dean," I whisper, grabbing his hand, trying to soothe him.

"I'm tired of burying friends."

"Look. We catch a fresh trail-" Sam begins. Dean cuts him off.

"We follow it. I know. Like I said, I'm just getting tired."

"Well, get angry!"

I decide to stay quiet. I already know there is nothing to be said that will do a damn bit of good. We reach the latest horrible hotel room in the pitch black of early morning. All I can think about is pulling on my comfortable sweats and wrapping myself around my warm man. After the hell of the last few days, I need to be surrounded by something good. His arm around my shoulders pulling me close to him might be an indication that he feels the same way.

"Home, crappy home." Dean says as Sam opens the door. We realize immediately that something good is not to be.

"Winchester and Winchester." Uriel, with Cas, is staring at us, waiting impatiently for us to get in the door.

"Oh, come on!" Dean throws his duffel across the room, but he keeps his arm around me. Protective at every turn.

"You are needed," the imposing angel of destruction continues.

"Needed? We just got back from needed!" Dean is fuming.

"You mind your tone with me."

"No, you mind your damn tone with _him_," I tell the smug angel.

Sam tries to diffuse the situation before it can get worse by explaining, "We just got back from Pamela's funeral."

"Pamela. You know, psychic Pamela. You remember her. Cas, you remember her; you burned her eyes out. Remember that? Good times. Yeah, then she died saving one of your precious Seals. So maybe you could stop pushing us around like chess pieces for five freakin' minutes!" Dean takes an angry and aggressive step toward the current focus of his rage. I grab at the arm he's dropped from around me and hold on.

"We raised you out of hell for our purposes."

"Yeah, what were those again? What exactly do you want from me?"

"Start with gratitude."

"Oh…," he breathes, unable to put into words his thoughts at the ridiculousness of that statement.

"Dean, we know this is difficult to understand," Castiel says when finally he speaks up.

"And we don't care," Uriel finishes for him. "Now, seven angels have been murdered. All of them from our garrison. The last one was killed tonight."

"Demons? How are they doing it?" It doesn't seem possible to me.

"We don't know," Uriel reluctantly admits.

"I'm sorry, but what do you want us to do about it? I mean, a demon with the juice to ice angels has to be out of our league, right?" Sammy can't seem to understand why they're here. Honestly, neither can I.

"We can handle the demons, thank you very much."

"Once we find whoever it is," Castiel adds, effectively wiping the self-satisfied look off of the other angel's glaring face.

Dean is still confused. "So, you need our help hunting a demon?"

"Not quite," Castiel replies with obvious discomfort. "We have Alistair."

"Great. He should be able to name your triggerman," Dean huffs.

"But he won't talk. Alistair's will is very strong. We've arrived at impasse," Cas understates.

"Yeah, well he's like a black belt in torture. I mean, you guys are out of your league," Dean informs him from experience.

"That's why we've come to his student," Uriel informs Dean with delight. "You happen to be the most qualified interrogator we've got."

"Dean, you're our best hope," Castiel tells him with sadness.

"No," Dean responds immediately with a voice choked into a growl by anger and the devastation of memory. "No way. You can't ask me to do this, Cas. Not this," he grinds out, finally gripping the hand I have on his arm, both of us seeking to remain anchored to each other.

"Who said anything about asking?" Uriel sneers as he steps toward us.

And just like that, Dean is facing Hell.

**A/N: This is more of a word-for-word translation than I will usually use, but I felt that for the set up, it worked. Drop a word or two, please. Love it? Like it? Hate it? Share it!**


	2. A Different Kind OF Fear

It's like landing. That's not exactly accurate, but I don't know any other way to describe the sensation of angel-travel. First, you're wherever you are, then you aren't, then you feel the weight of yourself on your feet. Disconcerting, scary, a little exciting. It could come in handy in a pinch, but I'm not sure I like it. Especially when I see where we are. At this moment, I hate everything about the angels.

I've seen Dean afraid before. I've seen his eyes watch me be jumped from behind by a vampire. That was fear. I've seen his panicked energy to find Sam when his little brother disappeared with no explanation. That was fear. I saw his face when he heard the Hounds come for him. That was fear. The look he wears now, the rigidity with which he is suddenly holding himself, the light tremble I would never have noticed was I not already holding onto him - this is a new fear. This is totally unlike anything I have seen in him before.

"Stay here," he says low and husky, squeezing my hand, whether to assure me or himself I'm not sure. "Please, Jay. I mean it. Don't move."

"Okay," I agree, if only to relieve even a little bit of the anxiety in his eyes.

Dropping my hand, he walks slowly forward to look through a dirty wired window set in a dirty steel door. He changes immediately. No longer simply rigid, he is now fully alert, ready to defend himself from whatever lies beyond that door. And I know instantly what he sees.

"It's Alistair? It is, isn't it." Turning to Castiel without moving my feet an inch, I yell, "You brought him to Alistair? He said no. He said NO!"

"You will quiet yourself, girl," Uriel commands. Before I can tell him exactly what he can do with that tone of voice, Castiel speaks to Dean.

"This devil's trap is old Enochian," he explains, as if knowing the spell was written by angels makes any difference at all. "He is bound completely."

Dean continues to stare, still, silent. Taking a deep breath as if to steady himself, he finally turns away. "Fascinating. Where's the door?"

"Where are you going?" Castiel demands.

Striding purposefully back to me, he takes my arm. "I'm getting her the hell out of here. We're hitching back to Cheyenne, thank you very much."

"Angels are dying, boy," Uriel says, appearing in front of us.

"Everybody's dying these days. And, hey I get it. You're all powerful. You can make me do whatever you want. But you can't make me do this." Dean seeks out Cas, looking askance toward the only angel in the room that he trusts.

"This is too much to ask. I know. But we have to ask it." There is sadness in Castiel's words, though it is nearly covered by determination.

Frustrated, Dean says to Uriel, "I want to talk to Cas alone."

"Shall I take her with me?" he asks, slowly extending his hand to me.

Dean instantly pulls me behind him. Once I'm safely out of reach, he steps to the surly angel, stopping him with just the anger in his blazing green eyes. He speaks not a word; he doesn't have to.

"I'll go seek revelation. You're defiant, but brave. I think I'm beginning to like you, boy," he chuckles before disapparating, or whatever the hell that's called outside of Hogwarts.

"What's going on, Cas?" Dean questions the celestial being he was beginning to consider a friend, or at least a being he could trust. It's not like him to be subservient to Uriel. He has been the one in control in the past. Turns out, the Powers That Be are displeased with his display of human weakness. He had begun to feel protective toward Dean, and he was demoted for it.

While Dean is distracted with Castiel, I move closer to the door by inches. I feel... compelled. Like I can't control the pull. I HAVE to see through that window, I HAVE to look, to see him. Alistair. I don't feel called, not really. I just know that the greatest danger to Dean we have ever faced is beyond that steel barrier and I have to face it. I have to-

"Jane! Damn it, Jane, I told you not to move!"

He's grabbed me around the waist, heaving chest against my back, pulling air into panicked lungs. Dragging me back to where Castiel stands unmoving, he roughly spins me to face him, anger and fear shaping his actions.

"What the hell? I told you, damn it, I told you not to move. I can't get us out of here if I spend my time worrying that you're doing something stupid. Stand here. Right here. And do not move." His harsh words are tempered by now gentle hands framing my face. The worry in his expression pleading with me to understand. And I do.

Some women need to be convinced of every decision made in a relationship. Every choice has to be examined and debated. They want the long conversations and heart-to-heart discussions, complete with lists of pros and cons for any given situation. They need the outward expression of relationship equality. If I was that kind of woman, if I needed that, I could not be with Dean. It's just a fact. I understand that Dean is not ever going to be that guy. He just isn't, and I accepted that a long time ago.

I'm not setting feminism back because of that. He neither views me nor treats me as a damsel in distress, a modern-day Penelope Pitstop. Nor would I allow it. I hunt monsters with my man, for God's sake. He trusts me in a hunt, he trusts me to have his back, and, more significant to Dean, he trusts me to have Sammy's back. I pull my weight, and he expects me to. His life has always been dictated by outside forces, though, and he craves that feeling of control.

Some women need to be told what to do at every turn. They want a big, strong man to take the responsibility of making decisions from them. That's not me, either. If I needed that, Dean couldn't be with me. The kind of life we live does not allow for that kind of weakness. I have a big, strong man; but I have a big, strong mind, too, and we both expect me to use it.

I'm not emasculating Dean by being headstrong. I don't think it's possible to do that, quite frankly. He is very secure in who he is in that respect, and very proud of who I am. We play well off each other. He listens to my instincts on the road, counts on me to catch and complete any holes in Sam and Bobby's research, and when we're alone, he looks forward to the excitement we can always generate together.

But no matter how much he sees me as a strong, smart, tough, capable woman, when I am in real danger, he takes control. I can accept it or go home. He set his terms, and I agreed. And right now, I am in great danger and he can't send me home. He can't get to Sammy. He can't fight angels. And the cause of all of his worst nightmares is in the next room. Now is not the time to give him more to worry about.

"Okay, baby. I'm sorry. I'll stay right here with Cas."

He kisses me hard, connecting us. This closeness is just for us, a statement of his love, asking for my trust. He has it. He always has it.

"I don't have a choice, Jay," he tells me, begging me to understand. Asking for my blessing.

When he finally told Sam and me what was done to him in Hell, what it was really like, my heart broke all over again. The total devastation I felt when he was gone could not compete with the horrors he faced for forty years. Forty years. For longer than he'd drawn breath on this earth, he suffered in the darkest reaches of pain.

When he revealed what he had done to others, I couldn't breathe. I couldn't in any way equate my badass hero with the sadistic actions he described. His confession left me reeling. I'll admit it took me longer to accept the news than it did Sam. The little brother took in the news, digested it almost immediately, and moved on. But I had a hard time letting him touch me.

I'm not proud of that. I'm not proud of the fact that he needed me and I couldn't be what he needed, if even for the shortest time. I processed it within days, found my way back to the fact that this was Dean, that he was home, that he'd really had no other way to survive… Hell. He was in Hell, and no decision would have been good or easy or without consequence. It didn't change who he is, who he's always been. He's Dean, and that's enough. But he saw my struggle, and it hurt him. I can never make up for that.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, "I'm sorry."

"Dean, you do what you have to. Remember who you are, baby, and do what you have to do to get through it."

"I will try, so hard. I can't promise. This is, this is…" he's struggling so with his fear. Of what he has to do, what it will do to him.

"I'll be right here waiting for you." I kiss him, again and again. I'm trying to be strong for him now, like I couldn't be before. Like he always is for me. "I love you."

"I know. I love you."

He releases me and addresses Cas, who has been trying to be invisible.

"You do not want me doing this. Trust me."

"Want it? No. But I've been told we need it."

"You ask me to open that door and walk through it, you will not like what walks back out."

"For what its worth, I would give anything not to ask you to do this."

It isn't worth much.

Dean squares his shoulders, gives me one more look, and becomes someone I don't know.

**A/N: Okay, don't hate Jane. Or me. In reality, I think it might take me a minute to deal with the whole torture revelation.**

**I feel like I might be walking down a well-worn path with the premise of this story, but I think my spin is worth exploring. Anyway, it won't leave me alone, so I don't have a choice. Let me know. Love it? Like it? Hate it? Share it!**


	3. The Comfort Of Pretty Lies

**A/N: Something a little different. A little Jane/Castiel interaction. Don't own Supernatural, but apparently there's a no return policy on the flu.**

He fills the rolling cart with the tools of a trade forced upon him. The lessons he mastered in Hell are coming back to him in horrific clarity. It's obvious in the way his face changes, the way his eyes narrow and look off into a past I can't see, as he touches each new instrument of torture. All the stories he refuses to talk about, all the memories he pretends don't still keep him up at night, all the barriers he has put between who he is now and what he became then, are crumbling. Dean is being crushed by Hell, right in front of me.

I have not moved since sitting down on a rickety, abandoned table a half an hour ago. He noticed every fidget and tick for a while, so I decided to stay very still. I haven't even gone for my phone yet to text Sam. I was afraid he'd try to stop me. My thought was to be as small a distraction to him as possible, but I'm beginning to feel that my stillness is unnecessary. He is so immersed in this task the angels have set before him that I'm not convinced he is even still aware of my presence. Castiel no longer registers for him, either. But Alistair. He is conscious of Alistair.

The demon behind the door is not quiet. I learned the two times I've met him before that he likes the sound of his own voice, no matter the incarnation. Vile, needling, persuasive, he uses his words as the first weapon from his bag of torturous tricks. He doesn't seem to know yet who will be sent in to him, but that doesn't seem to matter. Every generic taunt that makes its way to our hearing has an effect on Dean. His spine is ramrod straight, to the point that his back must be in pain. His actions become farther and farther removed from his usual cocky self-assurance, the nonchalance of a lifetime of action. He now has this elegance, this studied practice to every movement. His training is taking over.

"He will be fine, Jane." I am still shocked that angels can lie. I guess I should be grateful that I can still be shocked at all, given the life I lead.

"No. He won't." Lies won't help here.

"He is a very strong man."

"Yes, he is. The strongest I know."

"He will do what needs to be done. Dean understands that the information Alistair can give us is of paramount importance. There is no guilt to be had here."

"That's a pretty way of looking at it, Castiel. Does it make you feel better? Because if you knew Dean at all, you'd know that it's total crap. He won't feel guilty for getting the information, or for what happens to that son of a bitch demon in there."

"Then why will -"

"He'll agonize over who he has to be to get that information. He'll beat himself up for showing that side in front of me. He'll feel guilty for doing something he swore he'd never do again."

"The purpose behind this is just. Dean is the kind of man who values purpose," the angel tries to convince me. Or himself.

"You're right. But this isn't his purpose; it's yours. Look, Castiel. He's more than a man motivated by purpose. He's more than a strong man. He's a _good_ man. And what you've asked him to do… it'll break a part of him. It will shred an already torn piece of him that he hasn't allowed to heal. This will haunt him."

"I don't understand why. How can he not see that this will benefit everyone? It is the role Heaven has given him. It is the Will of God. I realize this is difficult for him, and I wish we did not have to compel him to do this, but - "

"There's no more point to this debate than arguing about angels dancing on the head of a pin! Who cares how many can fit? You don't get it, and I can't make you understand. You saw what he did in Hell, Castiel. I saw what Hell did to _him_. Dean should not be going in there. Leave me alone. Please."

Dean stills his hands. He must have everything the way he wants it, now. My time is up. I have to try to get in touch with Sam.

"Jane. Will you not forgive him for this?" Castiel asks.

"That isn't the point! There is nothing for me to forgive. He has to forgive himself."

"Will you forgive _me_? Will Dean?" There is confusion on his face. I still don't get how this frighteningly powerful being can be so unsure of himself. I don't know whether he cares or he's just trying to be certain he understands the situation.

"Does it matter?" Before he can answer, his expression changes and he reaches out for my arm.

"What are you doing? What is that?" He must have been studying me very closely, damn it. I never get caught; I was taught too well. I believed he was lost in thought. Before I can complete the text, Castiel has snatched the phone from behind my back. I hope the GPS signal is strong.

"Don't crush it or anything," I sigh. "I'll need it back."

"You were trying to contact Sam?"

"Yes." Why lie? It wouldn't get my phone back.

"Sam was left behind for a reason."

"I know that. What I don't know is why. I'm just trying to keep Dean out of that room."

"I know."

"Hey, Cas?"

His eyebrows raise at the use of Dean's nickname for him. I don't often use it with the angel directly. "Yes, Jay?"

"That's just weird. Don't call me that, okay? Only my boys call me that." He confuses me again with his attempt to connect. I just can't figure out his game.

"All right. What do you want to ask?"

"You left Sammy behind."

"And?"

"And why am I here? Why did Uriel allow me to come here with Dean?"

"Yeah, Cas," Dean says, having become aware of us again. "Why was Jane brought here?"

"I'm not sure. Perhaps because she was holding on to you when we left."

"No, I don't think so. I think that's bullshit," Dean replies, his back still turned to us. I want him to turn around. And I don't want him to turn around. I need to see his face, but I am so frightened of what I will see.

"Dean-"

"Why was she brought here, Cas?" he yells. His patience is gone.

"I don't know. Jane wasn't part of the plan."

"Well, that's just great. You bring me here to keep your angel-soldiers from being killed, but you put my girl in danger to do it. Is she leverage? Hold her hostage to be sure I do as I'm told? Hmm, Cas? 'Cause I'm just trying to understand what's really going on here. Get a handle on who we're dealing with. You know, before I leave her in here with you while I go play with the demon!"

He has stepped right up to the angel, their eyes locked, Dean so close they are nearly touching. My man is seething, whether at the danger I'm in or at the situation as a whole doesn't matter. I see his face. He is ready for battle, his demeanor bearing no resemblance to the man he was just an hour ago. He's focused, he's pissed, he's ready for a fight.

And, God help me, but I think he's excited.

Dean, and Sam, too, to be honest, can get really pumped before a fight. Like the scene in _The Outsiders_ when Ponyboy and the rest of the Greasers hoot, holler, and do flips on their way to the rumble. Well, kind of. They get hyped, preparing themselves for the total release, physical and mental, that a good fight provides. For my boys, the scraped knuckles, swollen eyes, bruised ribs - they're all worth it. For the relief the fight brings, it's worth it.

The only thing that rivals a fight for Dean is sex, and for Sam, well, I'm not going there. The violence that is a constant thread in their lives became a necessary outlet for them. Especially Dean, I think. When the pressure of this life gets too much, he's been known to ruin some random guys night. I accept it. Bar brawls are just a fact of life with him. He makes sure to hold back, though, to make sure he doesn't kill anybody. Dean looks very strong, but he's still much stronger than he looks.

This feeling I'm getting from him now, however, is different from the anticipation of release. Different from the rush he gets in a fight. This is gleeful. He's anxious, now, to get into that room. He's still protective, still fighting against the order, but he's ready to get started.

I think I'm getting a glimpse of what he's kept hidden. And I'm scared for him.

"You watch her," he commands.

"Yes," is Castiel's only reply. What more needs to be said?

One rough hand behind my neck pulls me toward him. The kiss is hard and fast and possessive. No terms of endearment, just the kiss, reminding us both that I'm his.

Turning his back, he grasps the cart full of pain and memories best left unexamined, he passes through the door.


End file.
